Brandon took another drink before answering. “Aye, I think she will try. It remains to be seen what Sir Roger will say.”
Guy raised one eyebrow with amused contempt, then wrote, The walls of this tent will quiver with his wind.
Grinning, Brandon stretched out his legs. “Good for him, so long as he does not blow out my fire in the bargain. ’Tis a right cold time of year to be camping. Pour us another cup, Guy.”
Guy returned his brother’s grin. Advent, he wrote. You are supposed to be fasting.
Brandon shrugged as he wagged the cup under Guy’s nose. “Pish, posh! ’Tis for medicinal reasons, since there is no wench around to warm my blood.”
Guy shook his head good-naturedly as he complied with Brandon’s request. As he handed the cup back to Brandon, his brother tapped Guy’s slate.
“Why do you insist on keeping this ridiculous vow of silence?” he asked, a look of mischief dancing in his light blue eyes.
My honor.
“And how long must I endure your gnarling penmanship?”
Until Celeste’s wedding day. Guy stared at the words he had written. Two weeks more. Would she find his voice pleasing?
Brandon grinned. “I pray I do not go blind afore then. By my troth, little brother, I’ve done more reading this fortnight than in the entire past year!”
Guy finished his wine, then stood, his head nearly touching the canvas roof of Brandon’s lavishly appointed pavilion. He winced as he moved. How quickly his muscles had softened! He could barely raise his shield arm after the bruising exercise Gaston had given him today at the quintain. I must return to the keep, he wrote. My absences are noticed. He massaged his aching shoulder as Brandon squinted at the slate.
“By a pair of the most purple eyes I have ever seen, perchance?” Brandon stretched himself out on the cot that Guy had just vacated.
Hie you to a bog, brother! The chalk snapped in two. Guy lifted the tent flap and shivered anew in the penetrating wind.
“After you!” Brandon retorted with a broad smile as he handed the slate back to Guy. “And close the flap quickly, ’ere I freeze and can no longer play your squire!”
Guy hugged himself for warmth as he crossed the field to the postern gate, where faithful Pip waited to let him in. The snow covered his feet at each step.
Forgive my weakness, Lord, but I am looking forward to wearing boots again.
The next morning, Celeste met Sir Roger in the hall as he was pulling on his thick leather gauntlets.
“A word, my lord, I pray you?” She smiled as she rose from her simple curtsy, though a hard knot had formed itself in her throat.
“Good morrow, sweetheart!” Sir Roger boomed in French, an answering smile wreathing his thick lips. “You look well this day.”
Celeste tensed. “Merci, my lord, as do you.” Quickly! She must broach the subject before she completely lost her nerve. “I have a boon to ask of you.”
Sir Roger looked pleased. “Say on!” He waved one gauntlet in the air. His squire, Grapper, withdrew a few paces.
“I have been thinking of our wedding day, my lord,” she began.
“As I have.” He stepped closer to her. She noticed that drippings from yesterday’s dinner still stuck to the gray velvet of his short coat. She itched to wrinkle her nose, but restrained her natural inclination. “And your boon?” he asked.
Celeste moistened her lips. Lying did not come easily to her. She thanked her lucky star that Gaston was not within earshot. “Merely this—it is the custom of my family to be wed at night, my lord.”
His thick brows furrowed. “How now?” he bellowed.
She lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “It is very silly, I know, but all my sisters were married by candlelight. It is very romantic, my lord, n’est-ce pas?” She cocked her head, smiled as sweetly as she knew how, then fluttered her lashes as her sister Henriette used to do.
Sir Roger barked, “Bolts and shackles, wench! I said on Saint Stephen’s Day, and by my head, ’twill—”
Celeste laid her hand on his arm and felt his muscles harden beneath the sleeve. “Oui, ” she murmured softly. “Saint Stephen’s Day, at six o’clock—in the evening, my lord. Also, I think it will be better for you.”
Sir Roger paused in his fuming. “How so?”
Celeste stroked his sleeve, much as she would do to a quarrelsome child. “I wish you to do well at the jousting, my lord. Indeed, I am sure every knight who comes is quaking in his greaves that you shall be riding in the lists against them.”
Sir Roger nodded, stroking his mustache. “My skill is well-known.”
“D’accord,” she agreed, swallowing down her flutters of anxiety. “And I would be much grieved if you were injured on our wedding day—before the evening.” She blushed as she thought of what the evening’s activities were to be. Sweet Saint Anne! How could she do that with him? She pushed the disgusting thought away.
Sir Roger slipped his arm around her waist and drew her hard against him. “’Tis a consummation that I devoutly wish for, sweetheart.” His breath reeked of stale beer and old onions.
Quelling her urge to gag, Celeste hurried on. “If you ... that is, we... were married before the tournament, I fear you would be distracted, my lord, and not at your best.”
“I am always at my best!” he roared. Her ears rang.
“Oui, but I fear that you may be injured because your mind is not fastened to the point of your lance, but on other... points.”
Her skin burned with shame.
He waggled his bushy gray brows at her, then roared with laughter. “They do say that a wise husband will not disdain to hear his wife’s advice, and follow it, if it be good.”
Celeste adjusted her coif and veil, which his rough handling had knocked askew. “Then you agree? We will be married after the tournament, n’est-ce pas?”
Sir Roger whacked her soundly on the backside. The force of his affectionate blow nearly sent her spinning out of his embrace. “Aye, ’tis agreed, and to seal the bargain, I claim a kiss, for I have not tasted those cherry lips of yours in many a day.”
“Pleasures grow sweeter by delay,” she murmured. The ferocity of his passion frightened her.
“Nay, I would kiss your sweet mouth again and again, so that the mark of my lips would show for a month.” Before Celeste could protest, his mouth engulfed hers; his tongue delved deeply inside, nearly causing her to choke. It seemed an eternity before he released her. “Now, there’s a wench!” he shouted in English to everyone in earshot as he thundered down the staircase to the courtyard.
Her lips raw from the encounter, Celeste sank down on the nearest bench. Her skirts of burgundy velvet shielded her trembling knees. Mon Dieu! How was she ever going to survive this fearful wedding night? Aunt Marguerite’s vivid description flashed across her memory.
Was last night’s visitation a mere figment of her fantasy and not a real man? No matter now. The die was cast. If nothing else, she had just bought herself twelve more hours of freedom. She lightly touched her bruised lips, and shuddered at the memory of the encounter.
That kiss was as comfortless as frozen water to a starved snake. O Knight of the Loyal Heart, if you be real, come save me.
Chapter Twenty-Six
When Celeste opened her prayer book the next morning, a small paper fluttered to the floor. Curious, she picked it up and turned it over. By the dim light of the altar candles, she saw the device of a heart with wings sprouting on either side. It had been hastily drawn with a frayed quill, but the scrap buoyed her spirits. The Knight of the Loyal Heart had sent her a sign—but what cunning had gotten it into her prayer book?
The next evening, as Celeste shuffled her playing cards to while away the long hours between vespers and bedtime with a game of patience, another paper fell onto her table. It, too, bore the winged heart of the fascinating and mysterious knight. Over the remainder of the week, other hearts appeared in the most unexpected places: in her sewing basket, under her
trencher at dinner, in her reticule, and even under her pillow. She carefully preserved each of them between the pages of her Book of Love, as a maid might press a may-flower in a heavy volume. But the question remained. Who had slipped these intriguing billets-doux among her private possessions, and who was the Knight of the Loyal Heart?
Advent came to an end at midnight on Christmas Eve, when the first of the traditional three masses was sung in the castle chapel. Despite the lateness of the hour, the usually dim, cold place of worship radiated warmth and light as the castle’s family, guests and servants crowded in to celebrate with fire and music the birth of the infant Jesus. The familiar Latin songs, the reading of the age-old story and the smell of the incense reminded Celeste of many happy memories of the Christmas season at her home, L’Étoile, Clutching her lighted taper, she tried to banish her homesickness. At her side, Gaston lent her the comfort of his reassuring presence, and when she chanced to glance at him, he gave her a brave smile, as if he understood her feelings.
Celeste had hoped Brother Guy would stand with her, as well, but he lingered in the side aisle, in the darkest part of the nave. He prayed in his usual silence, though for once his head was uncovered. Celeste marveled at how long his bright golden hair had grown since the first time she had seen him. At the end of the mass, he flashed her one of his brilliant smiles before slipping out the side door with several other men swathed in dark cloaks.
Since the day before, knights and their retinues had been arriving from neighboring estates to take part in the tournament and the subsequent wedding celebration of the lord of Snape Castle. Tonight, the chapel had been filled with many of these visitors. Initially Sir Roger had growled at the huge expense of his impending nuptials, but with the colorful arrival of so many distinguished guests, he had discovered that his reputation was considerably enhanced in the eyes of the local nobility by the prospect of good food, kegs of beer, and a chance to crack each other’s heads open on Saint Stephen’s Day.
The second Christmas mass, at dawn, celebrated the arrival of the shepherds at the stable in Bethlehem. Afterward, Mistress Conroy directed the serving men to pass among the milling throng with steaming mugs of hot spiced cider, which would slake everyone’s thirst for both drink and warmth until after the third mass was celebrated in the midmorning. Following the final amen, Talbott, the steward, would serve the nine-course dinner that the cooks had been preparing for days.
Celeste sipped her cider and looked over the noisy company with a contented pride of place. For once, huge fires burned in both the hearths of the great hall. Holly and ivy garlands wreathed the chimney hoods and festooned the trestle tables that Talbott had already ordered set up. Up in the minstrel gallery, a threesome—two recorders and a tabor player — began to lay out their music. One of the early arrivals, Lord Jeffrey of Brownlow, had brought the musicians with him for the tournament, and had graciously loaned their services for the prenoon feast. Sir Roger passed among his guests, roaring at each with gladsome bellows. If he missed Walter’s presence, he gave no indication of it.
Celeste searched for Guy, but could not find him. In less than a day, she would be wed to Sir Roger and Guy would leave Snape forever. She had hoped to share a few private moments with him before the many events of the day overwhelmed her. Celeste swallowed back the hovering tears of disappointment at his continued absence. Perhaps it is for the best, she consoled herself. She had allowed Guy to become far too important to her. The stunningly handsome monk was not hers, no matter how much she longed for him. He belonged to God alone.
Skirting the company, Celeste made her way to the bay window that overlooked the field below the castle. Overnight, a colorful tented city had sprung up like magical mushrooms. The weather had been cold and cloudy, but it had not snowed for several days, which allowed a great many neighbors from far and near to hazard the journey to Snape Castle. More than one lord, upon meeting Celeste for the first time, had bowed over her hand and thanked her for alleviating the boredom of midwinter. The wives who had accompanied their husbands equally thanked Celeste for the opportunity to show off their colorful wardrobes to each other and for the pleasure of three days of gossip and news-gathering among themselves.
Above each tent flew a banner emblazoned with the owner’s coat of arms. Though lions, bears, roses, cockleshells, greyhounds and French lilies filled the pewter gray sky in profusion, none of them bore the device she yearned to see—the red heart with golden wings of the Knight of the Loyal Heart.
“Sacrebleu!” Gaston rumbled beside her. “I have not seen such a display in a long time.” His eyes twinkled with the excitement of a man half his age. “Lord Ormond will be out of pocket for a good time to come.”
Celeste sighed and leaned her head against the stone window frame. “I am much amazed that the English would sooner give five or six ducats to provide an entertainment for a person than a groat to assist him in any distress.”
Gaston cocked his head, an inquiring look on his weathered features. “How now, my lady? You are the one who wanted this tournament, n’est-ce pas?”
She nodded, though she did not meet his eyes. “Oui.” She sighed again.
“Perhaps not enough company has come? Pah! There are over a dozen nobles of worthy rank here to do you honor in the lists.”
“Oui, ” she agreed, staring out again at the colorful flags. “It looks very grand.”
“But?” The old soldier gently prodded her. When Celeste finally met his gaze, she saw him laughing at her.
“I was expecting...” She stopped. How could she explain to Gaston what she had hoped to see? He would be even more amused, or he would be angry at her hopes of delivery from the marriage her father had arranged.
Gaston chuckled. “Expecting what, my lady? That one of your knights would leap out of the pages of your book and come to joust for you?”
Celeste swallowed hard. Gaston was far too astute. She must be very careful not to betray her hopes for that very thing. “Oui, Gaston.” She fixed a false smile on her face. “And I would like a dragon or two, preferably breathing fire. If we could tame one, he would do very well in the main fireplace. Please excuse me. I must see to my lord’s guests.” Ducking his mirth, she hastened to lose herself in the crowd of colorful swirling velvets, brocades, jewels and fur.
To Sir Guy Cavendish at Snape Castle, greetings and peace be with you.
In the small antechamber off the great hall, Guy read the neatly inscribed letter by the spill of light from the boisterous dinner. Only moments before, a travel-stained messenger had sought him out at the lowest end of the table and pressed the missive upon the monk. The young man’s weary face had lit up with pure joy when Guy rose, gave him his place and heaped a trencher full of venison and roast capon for him. Guy had then slipped into the small alcove, where he stared at the red seal with an anxious thudding in his heart. He recognized the signet of the father abbot of the Saint Hugh’s Priory.
May this letter find you and your charges in good health and excellent spirits and—if God be willing—celebrating the great Feast of the Nativity.
Father Jocelyn’s timing was impeccable, as always. The younger novices had often wondered if the man possessed second sight or had an angel as his watchdog. The truth of either would come as no surprise.
If the messenger has found you, and you are reading this at Snape Castle, then I trust that you have arrived with Lady Celeste de Montcalm. It is to this matter that I wish to open my thoughts. When you came to us in the spring, you were filled with the love of God and good intentions. Yet your heart was weary, and no amount of prayer, fasting or hard work seemed to give you the joy and peace you so desperately sought.
Guy’s mouth twisted in a rueful smile. Father Jocelyn also read men’s souls, it seemed. He should be prudent, lest he be burned as a wizard.
You have been gone from our care for several months, and I have prayed that your journey reach not only a successful conclusion for your body, but for your soul. If
now you find that your life’s path lies not within the four small walls of Saint Hugh’s, but in the hands and the heart of the Lady Celeste, then that is where our Lord wants you to be.
Guy closed his eyes for a moment. The blood pounded in his temples. When his breathing became more regular, he opened his eyes and continued reading.
If this then is the case, I heretofore release you from all your vows: those of poverty, chastity and obedience to me and to the rule of the Order of St. Francis, and that vow which I placed especially upon you—silence. If the lady is willing and you can claim her in honor, then I further bestow upon you my blessings and prayers for a long and happy life together. May you both rejoice in the love of Christ all the days of your lives. Written by my hand this 28th day of November, in the year of our Lord fifteen hundred and eight and twenty, Father Jocelyn Pollock.
Guy reread the letter, afraid he had misunderstood his superior’s generosity. Once assured that Father Jocelyn had indeed returned him to the secular world with love and understanding, Guy sagged against the chill wall. For Celeste, he had been willing to dash his pride of honor to the four winds and literally abduct her. Now he held in his hands the permission to pursue his heart’s desire with all the nobility that was his by birthright. How his father would roar with laughter over this turn of events! Guy thought.
He was tempted to fling back the alcove’s curtain and shout his love above the music and the din, but he realized that seemingly scandalous action would not only break the good cheer of the guests and anger Sir Roger into a dangerous rage, but would, no doubt, highly distress the object of his desire, Celeste. Best to let his plans, conceived on the first day of Advent—in fact, on the very day Father Jocelyn had written this letter—go forward. Guy interpreted the letter as a good omen. Tomorrow he would win his lady’s heart and hand on the field of honor—or die in the attempt.
Silent Knight Page 25